Dead Remnants

Chapter 4 (Part Two): INTO THE BELLY OF THE MOUNTAIN

Ashen woke in a dimly lit room, clenching a sheet covering her and gasping for breath. The dream had felt real. Her fog-filled head tried to gauge where she was. The smothering scent of bleach and antiseptic mingled with a whiff of vinegar. Muffled voices and hard-soled shoes clipped past, echoing down a hallway outside until they dissipated, drowned out by the squawk of an intercom requesting a nurse in room 215.

The cold of the room bit through the snug sheet wrapped around her. She struggled to free herself enough to sit up. Fluorescent light trickled through a small, rectangular window set into a door. Wires laced through the safety glass cast a delicate checkered pattern on the tiled floor of a stark hospital room, each vague detail blurry to Ashen's exhausted eyes.

A few stretchers were grouped against the wall. The sparse light illuminated the fabric draped over them like ghosts in the darkness. As Ashen tried to rub the sleep away, she thought back to the wreck before she had lost consciousness. There had been fire. Maybe even an explosion. If any bystanders had been around, the results should have been catastrophic, but each bed stood empty. No sign of the bus driver. No sign of the cowboy, Macajah. And most importantly, no sign of Jacob.

If Jacob wasn't there, where was he? She tore the suffocating sheet loose and threw it to the floor, surprised to find herself fully dressed rather than in a hospital gown. She examined her arms and legs in the weak light. No burns or marks. Not a single scratch.

Pain. She recalled feeling pain. Shards of glass had stabbed her hands when the bus had fallen to its side. Her breath hanging in the chill air, she ran her fingertips over the skin of her palms. Smooth. Unblemished. Gingerly, she touched her face, but no sharp metal pieces had embedded themselves. Nothing felt unusual. No discomfort. No injuries of any kind.

A thought struck her. Had she been there for a few hours? Or days? Had she been here long enough to heal?

The nurses outside grew quiet. Ashen let her arms fall to her sides and they struck the bed with a heavy thump. Puzzled, she felt along the metal frame of a stretcher. Despite herself, she chuckled. Typical. Her lack of social standing couldn't even secure her a real bed.

She rose to unsteady feet and walked to a small sink in the corner of the room. After splashing water onto her face, she filled a paper drinking cup and lifted it to her lips. Her eyes flitted to a small mirror attached to the wall. Instinct kicked in. She dropped the cup and backed away.

On the mirror's surface, a fleeting swirl of dark voids and bright, colorful lights shimmered, embracing her reflection. Tap water dripped down her forehead and across the light freckles speckled on her nose, her face haloed by her rebellious chestnut curls. The accident hadn't touched her face.

Several square cloths had been stacked on a nearby stainless-steel table, so she snagged one, holding it in front of her at arm's length. She tossed the cloth over the mirror, but not before noticing something gleam behind her.

Ashen spun, expecting one of the decaying corpses from her dream. No one was there, but on the far wall of the misty room, silver handles were lined up, each one attached to a miniature door. She made her way toward them and placed a hand on one of the closed doors. It was icy to the touch. A sickening feeling crept over her. Even though her mind screamed at her not to, she grasped one of the latches, taking a deep breath before yanking the door open.

When the vapor cleared within the small refrigerated unit, a long object on a steel tray, concealed by sheer material, became visible. Reluctantly, she lifted the thin sheet, revealing a pair of bare alabaster feet. An official-looking slip of paper encased in clear plastic had been tied around one ankle. On the tag, scrawled details stated that the feet belonged to a Mr. Frank Romero.